What It's Really Like to Be a Burlesque Dancer

A glimpse of a typical Emma Glitterbomb performance. Photo by An Insomniac Dreaming

As a burlesque dancer, what I do involves choreography, feathers, and glitter. (Lots of glitter.) Also involved: never-ending drama around issues like fair pay, entitled male audience members, and the heady experience of people occasionally throwing money at me for taking off my clothes onstage.

Ask 20 people what the difference is between stripping and burlesque, and you’ll likely get 20 different answers. But I think of it like this: Stripping is client-focused; burlesque is performance-focused. As a stripper, though you are performing, you also want to create one-on-one experiences with clients, which can result in more money. As a burlesque performer, you’re creating a relationship with the audience as a whole. You also drop a lot on costumes, hair styling, and makeup, while knowing you may not get a return on your investments for a long time.

Though it can be challenging, stripping is a viable way to make a living if you hustle. Unless you’re Dita von Teese or you produce shows, making a living in burlesque is a lot less likely. But for me, raking in a ton of cash really isn't the point. Burlesque has taught me to accept myself in a way nothing else has. It's also a hell of a lot of fun.

I started burlesque classes in 2010, exactly one day before my 30th birthday.

A friend had raved about Studio L’amour, the brainchild of burlesque legend Michelle L’amour. Learning to bump and grind felt deliciously risky to me. Three years later, after the death of a dear friend, I was feeling very carpe diem about life and submitted for two burlesque troupe auditions. If I’m going to do burlesque, I thought while cobbling together a resume and a photo my sister had taken of me in her apartment, I may as well go all the way, even if I make a total ass of myself, which is very likely. Playtime in the classroom was over.

At my first audition, I lost my underwear—and not on purpose. I was auditioning for a troupe called Gorilla Tango Burlesque: Provocative Parody for the Discerning Nerd. I’d seen their ads for funny parodies of classics like Star Wars featuring women of all shapes and sizes taking it all off. As a storm raged outside and I huddled in the tiny lobby with 20 other nervous women, I thought, What am I doing? They’re all younger, cuter, more confident. I’m a 30-something dork with cellulite and a big ass. I’m going to get laughed off the stage. I decided to stick it out, and when it came time to strip, my nervous fingers grabbed both the waistband of my sweatpants and that of my black lace G-string. Suddenly, I felt air where I shouldn’t have.

A frozen smile on my face, I yanked up the offending G-string and came to terms with the fact that a bunch of strangers had just seen my vulva. Little did I know that would be far from the first time, although I would get a lot more comfortable with it.

That audition landed me a role in Temple of Boobs: an Indiana Jones Burlesque, and I adopted my new name: Emma Glitterbomb. Emma is a reference to a character’s pseudonym in the play Sex With Strangers. Glitterbomb comes from one of my favorite Parks and Recreation episodes in which a newly-divorced Tom Haverford drags his colleagues to the local strip club, where a “glitterbomb” releases confetti into the air and almost compromises Ron Swanson’s beloved breakfast buffet.

Contrary to what my scoring the job that day (and my stage name) might imply, burlesque isn't all love and sparkles. Booking jobs can be rife with disappointment and heartbreak. Sometimes there are open auditions for troupes or individual shows, but more often than not, performers submit photos and video to producers. Once in a while, someone who’s seen me perform will solicit me for a gig, or I’ll guest perform with the classic troupe I left in 2014 (think: gloves, boas, evening gowns), but more often than not, I’m submitting my material with everyone else. For every gig I book, there are three or four I don’t.

As I started performing, I realized some people have no idea how to act when confronted with a whole lotta skin.

Even if the host says so beforehand, audience members new to burlesque often don’t understand that we want them to cheer! There’s nothing worse than a silent audience while you’re taking off your clothes. That said, we also want people to be respectful.

I’ve performed for bachelor and bachelorette parties where attendees were absolutely lovely, tipped well, and high-fived me on the way out. I’ve also performed for people who were incredibly drunk and yelled gross things about our bodies. One bachelor, for example, negatively commented on my fellow dancer’s weight, leaving her in tears. Sadly, the worst offenders in this respect are often men and usually egged on by their friends.

Don’t get me wrong—we want those in the audience to have fun. But saying mean things, yelling out what they’d like to do to us, or generally being gross should be out of bounds. “Woo-hoo!” is appropriate, “Show me your tits!” is not. (Also, you’re at a burlesque show, meaning I’m going to show you my tits anyway. Be patient. And while you’re waiting, put $20 in the tip bucket.)

Troublesome men aren’t limited to the audience. There are guys on social media who don’t hesitate to “compliment” performers in the sleaziest way possible, harass us via direct message with requests for a private show (that starts at $300, bud—hey, where’d you go?), or repeatedly ask us out. We have secret Facebook groups to warn each other about these men, along with inappropriate men in the burlesque community. These wolves in sheep’s clothing are producers, photographers, and sometimes performers, too.

Even in the friendliest of burlesque environments, backstage drama is everywhere.

Not really personal drama; the performers I’ve met and worked with are the loveliest, most hardworking, and most protective people. Many disagreements actually come down to money. Discussions abound of what constitutes fair pay for burlesque performers, along with other issues like which producers are known to take financial advantage of less experienced dancers. What makes it harder is that there's no set payment or tipping standard for burlesque.

Most gigs pay a flat performance fee (industry standards vary according to area). Some allow you to collect tips in hand, as most drag performers to, some do a “tip get” or pass-the-hat and divide tips among performers, others don’t collect tips at all. Once in a great while, an audience member might throw money at you, though in my experience it’s rare. I can count on one hand the number of times it's happened to me. I’m not gonna lie: As long as the audience member is being respectful, it’s always thrilling.

Some money-related squabbles get heated, others result in rifts between performers, sometimes even the disbanding of troupes. Recently, I was part of a walkout at Gorilla Tango Burlesque due to a pay dispute and constant mistreatment from the theater’s owner. The walkout led to the theater closing altogether several days later. Though I was already planning to leave the troupe, the last couple of weeks have been a tough adjustment for 30 women who were used to performing together every weekend.

While I love burlesque for many reasons, the most important is that it's taught me I can accept my perfectly imperfect body.

My love for Emma Glitterbomb has many sources: what this persona brings to the Chicago scene, the reputation of hard work and copious sparkle I’ve cultivated, my closet full of tutus and rhinestoned lingerie, the energy and vulnerability I bring to my art. But most of all, I love that assuming this role has helped me feel more comfortable in my skin.

Emma Glitterbomb in an American Horror Story tribute act. Photo by Greg Inda

No, I still don’t love my body every single day. But I’ve learned to discover the nuances of my public and private sexuality, to see the beauty in myself and others. To move through the world, taking up space. To eat that cookie, then take off my evening gown half an hour later. No matter how I'm feeling about my body that day, putting it on display and treating it like something worthy of being on a stage has helped me believe it actually is. The audience's enthusiastic praise doesn't hurt.

For the past three years, I've performed as Han Solo in A Nude Hope: A Star Wars Burlesque. Han was a coveted role, involving plenty of swaggering in tight pants and a stage kiss with Princess Leia, and every performance culminated in the character’s solo, a sexy chair dance to Hall & Oates’ “Rich Girl.” Playing Han was likely the closest I’ll ever come to being a rock star.

As the music faded at the end of the recent performance, I strutted offstage in my Millennium Falcon-shaped pasties, red thong, and tall black boots, breathless with the adrenaline rush of openly reveling in my body.

“Did you see what happened?” the stage manager whispered to me, handing off my prop for the final showdown scene.
I shook my head. I’d gotten a big ovation, flirted with a bachelorette in the front row, nailed my bra removal. A great night, but nothing out of the ordinary.

The stage manager smiled. “Someone threw money. Onstage. At you.”

Best. Night. Ever.

Emma Glitterbomb is a writer by day and vixen by night. She performs at various venues throughout Chicago, and is a former member of Gorilla Tango Burlesque and the Kiss Kiss Cabaret. Emma chronicled her first year in Chicago’s vibrant burlesque scene in the “My Life in Burlesque” column for Persephone Magazine. Say hi at eglitterbomb@gmail.com.